by Debra Dixon
Each time the suggestion was made, Mama just smiled and shook her head. “Polly goes with me.”
“Don’t seem right,” the cousin would say. “Sounds down right prejudiced to me. Have you got something against the Baptists?”
“Me?” Mama’d say ever so sweetly. “Why, I haven’t got a prejudiced bone in my body. In fact, my views are quite catholic — that is to say, catholic with a little ‘c.’”
I never was sure what that meant, except that it had something to do with a person seeing some good in every denomination. I do know, though, that it was having to stand behind that little “c” boast that forced Mama into letting me spend the last week of summer vacation with Yvonne Clay, my best friend in all the world.
Although Yvonne and I were best friends, we saw each other only at school, on account of I lived on the north side of town while she lived to the south, on the outskirts of Mossy Creek, in the country. In that summer of 1952, the distance between our homes was a significant consideration since most of the roads outside town were bumpy, dusty, unpaved dirt lanes. Mrs. Clay had invited me to come out to help celebrate Yvonne’s ninth birthday, but Mama was having trouble agreeing to let me go. “If it was just for the day,” she said, “there’d be no question. But an entire week? I don’t know about that, Polly.”
“But, Mama, you know Yvonne. She’s real well behaved, and her mother is the sweetest person you’d ever want to meet.”
“I know, honey, but you’re not accustomed to being away at night. You might get homesick.”
“I wouldn’t. I promise.”
“Besides,” she added, as if presenting the clincher to my not going, “you’d miss church on Sunday.”
“Oh, no, ma’am,” I said, happy to reassure her on that point, “Yvonne goes to church every Sunday. I could just go with her.”
“To the Children of Jesus Tabernacle!” Mama stared at me like I’d said I was fixing to run out to the mailbox buck naked. “Absolutely not!”
“’Scuse me for putting in my two cents’ worth,” Daddy said, lowering his newspaper so he could look right at Mama, “but do you know something I don’t know about the folks who go to the Tabernacle?”
“No, but —”
“Am I in the wrong house?” he said, “or aren’t you the lady who professes to be so broad-minded? Er, catholic with a little ‘c’?”
Mama’s mouth got sort of puckery, like she’d bitten into a green persimmon, and she didn’t say anything for a solid minute. To my surprise, my daddy started grinning like a cat who’d finally cornered the family canary. “What’s the matter, Delilah? Something got your tongue?”
When she just kept on staring at him, Daddy chuckled. “It’s just us Baptists and Methodists here, so feel free to continue with your list of reasons why Polly can’t go to her friend’s church. I’m especially fascinated to know why a Methodist —”
“You can go!” Mama said, surprising the dickens out of me. “I’m sure it will be very educational for you to see how other people worship.” Immediately, she turned back to Daddy, and if looks could kill, poor Daddy would have met his Maker that instant. “As for you, Ralph Walter Varner, maybe you’d like to visit the Children of Jesus Tabernacle as well?”
“Me?” Daddy said, almost choking on his laughter. “The thought never crossed my mind. I’m Baptist with a big ‘B’ and proud of it. So until every last Child of Jesus brings his letter of membership over to First Baptist, guess they’ll just have to make do with Polly.”
Mama packed my suitcase like I was going to New York City, rather than a mere six miles on the other side of town, and at the last minute she agreed I could take the pretty pink bathing suit Grandmother Varner’d given me for my ninth birthday. “But don’t you suggest swimming,” Mama warned, “just in case it’s against their religion or something.”
I couldn’t imagine anybody having something against swimming, but I said I would be on my best behavior the entire week. “I’ll say ‘Please’ and ‘Thank you,’ and I won’t take anything at the table until it’s offered to me.”
Naturally, I was much too excited to sleep that Sunday night, and by Monday afternoon, when Mrs. Clay drove up in her dark blue Ford truck, I was ready to begin what I was convinced would be the most exciting adventure of my life. In my mind, the coming week was destined to leave me with a memory I would treasure for all my days. I could just picture Yvonne and me skipping through a lovely green meadow, a picnic basket held between us, with her dog, Rollo, trailing happily behind us. I didn’t have a dog, but I was certain I would like Rollo.
The first hint that things might not be as I had imagined them came when Mrs. Clay made a left turn onto a dirt road so rutted it bounced and tossed us until I thought surely my teeth would break. After about a quarter of a mile of this, she stopped the truck beside a small, country house. “Here we are,” she said. “Welcome to our home, Polly.”
Several weeks ago Daddy and I had seen an old movie on TV called Kentucky starring a lady named Loretta Young, and because Yvonne’s house was on the edge of town, I had begun to imagine it a twin of the magnificent, white-fenced horse farm in the movie. Of course, I knew the grass in Georgia wasn’t blue like that in Kentucky; even so, I wasn’t prepared for the reality of the Clays’ house.
This unpainted wooden structure, with its corrugated tin roof, was a far cry from a Kentucky horse farm. And the elderly lady who came out onto the sagging porch to wave to us, wearing a faded blue dress and men’s leather boots, was no Loretta Young!
“That’s my Grandma Wilson,” Yvonne said. “We live with her and Grandpa. Oh, and my cousin is here too. His mother sent him out here for a few days, on account of she just had a new little baby girl.”
Her cousin! I got a real queasy feeling in my stomach. Not Bobby Wilson! Please, I prayed, don’t let that be the cousin she means. Bobby Wilson was a year ahead of us at Mossy Creek Elementary, and though there wasn’t the least chance of my ever being double promoted, if there had been, I would have turned down the honor simply because I would have wound up in the same class as Bobby Wilson.
“Your cousin?” I said, the words little more than a whisper.
“Surely you know Bobby Wilson,” Mrs. Clay said.
“Yes’um,” I replied. And to myself I said, All too well!
“Don’t worry,” Yvonne whispered in my ear, “Bobby won’t bother us. My grandpa told him he’s not to pester us, and if he tries, I’ll just tell on him. He’ll behave.”
I sure hoped so, but I had my doubts.
We climbed down from the truck, and while Mrs. Clay got my suitcase, Yvonne took my hand and led me around to the back of the house to show me the new baby pigs.
The back porch sagged even worse than the one on the front, and over to the right was a rusted iron water spigot, with a metal bucket hanging on its nozzle. The spigot dripped, so the ground for a good four feet around it had become a circle of oozing mud.
Pitted peaches were strewn all over the porch, lying on what I later learned were bleached flower sacks. The peaches were drying in the sun, and later they would be stored in jars and put up for use during the winter months.
Yvonne gave my hand a tug. “The sty is down this way,” she said, though saying it was a waste of breath. My nose told me where the pigs were. To the right, about a hundred yards away, was a fenced area containing a pinkish-gray animal that resembled a tall, fat dog. While I batted a few dozen horseflies away from my face, four little piglets went running over to the mother and began nudging her belly and squealing. The big old fat pig just grunted and plopped down so the piglets could suckle. “Look at their little curly tails,” Yvonne said. “Aren’t they adorable?”
Good manners kept me from saying what I really thought, and since speaking would mean I would have to open my mouth, which was the last thing I wanted to do in all this stench and flies, I nodded and did a little grunting of my own.
“Uh huh,” I muttered in my throat.
Mr
s. Clay came to the back door and yelled for us to come to supper, so we left the pigs and walked back up to the house. After stepping around the mud surrounding the spigot, we reached the porch by way of a cement block that replaced the broken bottom stair. I just did whatever Yvonne did, it was the polite thing to do, but the more I saw, the more I began to wonder how I would ever stay here a whole week.
On the other side of the screen door was as old-timey a kitchen as I’d ever seen, and when I looked around the room, I marveled at what it had and what it didn’t have. Among the furnishings was a round oak pedestal table, several mismatched cane-bottom chairs, an old wooden hutch, a sink, a kerosene stove, and a refrigerator so old I didn’t recognize the brand name. Worst of all, empty mason jars covered every square inch of the faded linoleum floor.
There must have been a hundred of those jars!
I thought of the peaches drying on the porch, and I wondered if it would take all that many jars to hold them. As if in answer to my thoughts, Yvonne said, “Grandma’s in the midst of canning. I’ll have to help her some while you’re here, but you’re company, so you don’t have to help if you don’t want to.”
I knew what my mama would expect me to reply, so I said, “Oh, I’ll be happy to help if I can.” It must have been the right answer because Yvonne gave me a hug, and her grandma, who’d just turned from the stove, gave me a grin so wide I saw where some of her back teeth were missing.
“Everybody sit down,” the old woman said, motioning toward the pedestal table, which was practically groaning from all the food crowded in the middle. Circling a platter of fried chicken were bowls of mashed potatoes, boiled okra, crowder peas, stewed squash, and cabbage slaw. In addition, there were plates of sliced tomatoes and hot flaky biscuits. “I don’t mind doing the cooking, but I get down right cranky if I can’t eat while the food is still hot. Speaking of which, Yvonne, sugar, look in the pantry and get me the hot sauce.”
While Yvonne went to a small curtained alcove of shelves, Mrs. Clay introduced me to her parents then showed me which chair was mine. “And you know my nephew, Bobby, of course.”
Bobby made a face at me, then he yanked back his chair and sat down. Thank goodness his grandfather was between him and me. “You like hot sauce?” Mr. Wilson asked when Yvonne returned with a mason jar containing dozens of little green peppers covered over with liquid.
“No, sir. I don’t care for any.”
“To each his own,” he said. “Me, I like a drop on my slaw.”
Mr. Wilson was tall and gray-haired, just like my grandfather Varner, and though he wore overalls and heavy boots, where my grandfather wore a white shirt and tie every day of his life, he made me think of my grandfather. Hoping I hadn’t insulted him, I said, “My grandfather pours pepper salts on his collards.”
“Well, he wouldn’t pour my pepper salts on anything,” Mrs. Wilson said. “As my husband will tell you, when it comes to my pepper salts, one drop will inspire, two drops will set fire.”
This was obviously a family joke, for all three of the grown-ups laughed.
After Mr. Wilson finished saying the blessing, he told Yvonne to pass me the platter of fried chicken. “Since you’re the company, Polly, you may choose whichever piece you prefer.”
For as long as I can remember, the pulleybone has been my favorite piece of chicken. I can eat a leg or a wing if I have to, but the sight of a crispy pulleybone makes my mouth water. “Thank you,” I said, “I’ll have the pulleybone if nobody minds.”
When no one said a word, I took my fork and reached toward the platter. My hand was no more than an inch away when suddenly Bobby Wilson reached out and snatched the pulleybone right out from under my fork. I was still getting over the shock of that when he did something so disgusting I could hardly believe my eyes. He licked that piece of chicken on both sides, his vile tongue working as fast as a thirsty dog laps water from a bowl. Then, pretending to be surprised that everyone was staring at him, he said, “Oh, was that the only pulleybone? Here, you can have it.”
“Boy,” Mr. Wilson said, “get up from the table this minute, and don’t come back ’til everybody’s finished eating.”
Bobby got up, and though he didn’t make a sound, he looked straight at me. Watch out, his eyes said, I’ve just gotten started.
Mrs. Wilson tossed the pulleybone into the sink, and though she apologized for her grandson, the damage was already done. My stomach was doing flip flops like it might turn sick on me. Thank goodness I managed not to embarrass myself. Not then. The embarrassment came a couple of hours later.
After we ate slices of birthday cake with chocolate icing and pink candles, Yvonne and I went to her bedroom to cut out the paper dolls I’d brought her as my gift. I was maneuvering the scissors around a particularly difficult neckline when Yvonne said, “It’ll be dark soon. If you need to pee, now’d be a good time to do it.”
I must have looked as dumb as I felt, for she giggled. “It gets pretty dark here at night. Much too dark to go outside.”
Outside? Was she teasing me? Dark or light, why would I want to go outside to pee? I found out soon enough. Yvonne swatted my arm like we were playing tag, then she ran from the bedroom, through the kitchen, and out onto the back porch. I followed, of course, but she’s taller than me and has longer legs, so she always outruns me.
She was waiting for me on a footpath just beyond the dripping spigot. It was only when I joined her that I noticed a small wooden structure at the end of the path. Built of wood, the little building was about seven feet high and about three feet wide, and it was so dilapidated it looked like the first good gust of wind would send it flying all the way to Florida.
An outhouse! I swallowed a sob, though I felt my lip quiver. My daddy always called Mama and me a couple of hothouse plants, and I guessed it was the truth, because the only place Mama would let me sit down on the toilet seat was at the home of a relative.
In addition to my ‘prissy ways’ as Grandmother Varner calls them, I’m afraid of everything that crawls on its belly, and just about everything that walks on four feet, and I’d heard there were Daddy Longlegs spiders in outhouses. I shuddered just thinking of spiders.
Yvonne and I had been best friends since we were in first grade, and it was okay with her that I was a bit of a scaredy cat, and it was okay with me that she wasn’t. Because she knew I was a hot house plant she usually took the lead. But not this time. “You can go first,” she said, and though I knew she was being polite, this was one time I wished she’d be rude.
The door to the outhouse was held on by two rusted hinges, and there was no handle to open it, just a hole about the size of a fifty-cent piece to put your finger through. Naturally, I was reluctant to put my finger through that round hole, but I did it anyway on account of I was beginning to need to pee. I had opened the door no more than a couple of inches, with the hinges creaking in a spooky sort of way, when something brown and furry came running out. Before I could jump back, that furry thing dashed right over my foot, then disappeared into the tall weeds to the rear.
I don’t know what sort of creature it was, but I screamed. When Yvonne heard me scream, she let out a yelp of her own and turned to run back to the house. I ran, too, and for the first time since I’d known her, I stayed ahead of her the entire way.
I wouldn’t have made it through those next five days if it hadn’t been for an old ceramic baby potty Mrs. Clay found in the attic. Even so, I hated having to use it, just like I hated everything else about being in the country. All I thought about was going home. If there were any lovely meadows for picnicking, I never saw them. As for Yvonne’s dog, Rollo, that crazy old bloodhound did nothing but sleep half the day and chase chickens around the yard for the other half.
That was another horror I’d discovered about the country, that chickens are allowed to walk around loose!
Even so, I preferred the days to the nights. Yvonne didn’t have any trouble falling to sleep, but the crickets and the hooty owls w
ere so loud they kept me awake most of the night. And it was so dark I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face.
Most mornings we helped Mrs. Wilson with her canning. She was putting up soup mixtures, and by Saturday I’d gotten pretty good at peeling tomatoes. The tomatoes were allowed to sit in a pan of hot water for several seconds. After that the skin could be pulled off fairly easy. I’d been peeling for two days now, and I had the shriveled, pruney fingers to prove it, but at least that job was better than shucking corn. Corn, I’d discovered, had worms in it. Fat, green worms.
While I looked around me to make sure none of those loathsome creatures were crawling about, Mrs. Clay surprised me by suggesting that as soon as Yvonne and I finished what we were doing, we might like to go down to the creek for a swim. “I think you two have earned some play time. Never saw two such helpful little girls.”
As soon as Yvonne and I washed our hands, we went to her bedroom and put on our bathing suits and sandals. “Let’s go,” I said, throwing a towel over my shoulder, “before your cousin hears us and tries to come along.”
“He’s gone off someplace,” she said, “so we’ll have the whole afternoon to ourselves.”
Happy to hear it, I tagged her shoulder then ran for the door. “Last one in’s a rotten egg.”
“That’ll be you!” Yvonne yelled, running after me.
We skipped all the way down an old dirt road with ditches on either side, and it was great to be alone, just her and me. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and we were telling silly jokes and giggling.
It hadn’t rained for several days, so the road was dry and powdery, and our footsteps kicked up the silt, making our feet and ankles as red as the Georgia clay. I didn’t mind, though, for the creek was just ahead — I could smell the fresh, cool water. I couldn’t see it yet, on account of it was down a hill and the hill was literally covered by thick, green kudzu vines, but I knew it was there.
